The Descent

For  God  to  continue  punishing  them  was  wrong.  To  allow  them  to  be  hunted  into extinction   was   a   sacrilege.   But   then,   from   the   very   beginning,   his   people   had challenged the notion  that  God  ever  showed  mercy.  They  were  his  lie.  They  were  his sin. It  had always  been a false hope  that  God  might  deliver  them  from  His  own  wrath into love. No, deliverance had to come from some other soul.

The dead have no rights.

– THOMAS JEFFERSON, near the end of his life

25

PANDEMONIUM

January 5

The  end began with a small thing Ali spied on the  ground.  It  could  have  been  an  angel lying  there,  invisible  to  all  but  her,  telling  her  to  be  ready.  Not  missing  a  step,  she landed  her  foot  on  the  message  and  crushed  it  to  bits.  It  was  probably  unnecessary. Who else would have  read so much in a red M&M?

Not  much  later,  while  crouched  awkwardly  in  the  shadowy  nook  designated  their latrine, Ali discovered another red candy, this time lodged in  a  crack  in  the  wall  above their  sewage.   Squatting   above   the   pool  of  muck,  her   wrists   roped   tight   by   the mercenaries,  Ali  could  still  get  the  fingers  of  one  hand  down  the  crack.  Expecting  a note, she felt a hard, smooth knob. What she slid from  the  stone  was  a  knife,  black  for night work, with a blood gutter  and utilitarian weight. Even the handle looked cruel.

'What  are  you  doing  in  there?'  the  guard  called.  Ali  slipped  the   knife  into  her clothing,  and  the  guard  returned  her  to  the  little  side  room  that  was  their  dungeon. Heart  knocking  in  her  ears,  Ali  took  her  place  beside  the  girl.  She  was  afraid,  but joyous. Here was her chance.

And now? Ali wondered. Would there  be another sign? Should she cut her ropes now or  wait?  And  what  did  Ike  think  she  was  capable  of?  He  had  to  know  there  were limits. She was a woman of God.

Three  mercenaries  stalked  ten  feet  apart  through  the  terracotta  army  surrounding the spire. 'This is a waste  of time,' said one. 'He's gone. If I was him, I'd be gone.'

'What are we doing anyway,  stuck here?  The  colonel wants more fight?'

'It's  a  deathwatch,  man.  He  wants  us  to  hold  his  hand  while  he  rots.  And  the  whole time we're  feeding prisoners. I didn't see no grocery  on the way  in.'

'The best  target's  the one standing still. We're just beautiful, man. Sitting ducks.'

'My very  thoughts.'

There  was a pause. They  were  still feeling one another out.

'So what's the word?'

'Desperate  times,  man.  Desperate  measures.  The  colonel's  eating  our  time.  The civilians are eating our food. And the dying are dead. It's  called limited resources.'

'Makes sense to me.'

'So who else is in?'

'You  two  make  twelve.  Plus  the  mope,  Shoat.  He  won't  let  go  of  the  code  for  his homing device.'

'Give me an hour with Shoat, I'll give you his code. And his mama's phone number.'

'You're  wasting  your  time.  He  gives  that  up,  he  knows  he's  dead.  We  just  have  to wait until he activates  the box. Then he's dog food.'

'When do we do it?'

'Pack your  toothbrush. Soon, real soon.'

'Ow,' barked  one. 'Fucking statues.'

'Be glad they  ain't real.'

'Hang on, girls. What have  we here?'

'Coins! Look at this.'

'These  are handmade. See the cut edges?  They're  old.'

'Fuck old. This stuff's gold.'

'About time. And there's  more this way.'

'And over  here, too. About time we found some booty.'

The   three   separated,   plucking  coins  from  the   ground  with  all  the   elegance   of chickens in a yard.  They  worked farther  and farther  apart  from one another.

Finally the one with a backward  Raiders  cap  got  down  into  a  duckwalk  with  his  rifle across his lap, which freed both hands to snatch at  the  treasure.  'Hey,  guys,'  he  called,

'my pockets are full. Rent me some space in your  rack.'

Another minute passed. 'Hey,'  he  yelled  again,  and  froze.  'Guys?'  His  hands  opened. The  coins dropped. Slowly he reached for his rifle.

Too late, he heard the tinkling of jade.

The  Chinese had  a  special  word, ling-lung, to  describe  the  musical  jingling  that  jade jewelry  made  as  aristocrats  walked  by.  There  was  no  telling  what  the  hadals  might have  called it twenty  eons earlier. But as the statue  next  to  him  came  alive,  the  sound was identical.

The   mercenary   started   to   rise.   The   proto-Aztec   war   club   met   him   on   the downstroke.   His  head  popped  clear   with   surgical   neatness.   Obsidian   really   was sharper than modern scalpels. The  statue  shed its  jade  armor  and  became  a  man.  Ike socketed  the  club  back  into  its  terra-cotta  hands,  and  hefted  the  rifle.  Fair  exchange, he thought.